I leaned back into the dark leather seat and rested my forehead against the cool glass of the window.

The ocean air smelled of salt water and fresh coffee.

I stood on the tiled balcony of my third-floor apartment on Rua Garrett, watching the yellow electric streetcar rattle down the hill toward the water.

My new work phone buzzed twice on the little iron table by my elbow.

It was an automatic notification from our company server, forwarding an urgent email sent to my old address at six fifteen in the morning, Chicago time.

The subject line held nothing but three exclamation points.